Mother said when the Egyptians built their temples, they did not make them microscopic. Handmade by clay to turn to stone, they were built immense to be seen by all. She said that I never was one to grow daisies that cloaked her outsides. I grew thorns, when touched, they would bleed crimson. Wear it as lipstick and kiss my own bruises to mark my land. Bullets deep rooted into the ground, some wounds are tough to remove. Left tattooed onto skin to tell tales of a warrior, she said this was her war once. I did not need a bow nor an arrow, I was a wildfire that spread through enemies’ land, the light in a fog of gunpowder. She said not to let them nail my tongue to a wooden cross for it was not vanity that spoke, it was the hum that my self-loving ancestors left as they danced in their enemies’ graves. ✱✱✱ Katixa Espinoza is a poet who often loses multiple liquid pens from frantically penning her high school nightmares to sleep as she tries to find herself through writing. She blogs at https://katixaespinoza.wordpress.com/ but you can find her on twitter @kattidk_.
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